


Masyaf in Danger

by Moonsp1r1t



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Character Death, POV Malik Al-Sayf, Period-Typical Ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsp1r1t/pseuds/Moonsp1r1t
Summary: It was a losing fight from the start. That was obvious, even to the untrained eye. There were only the nine people that had come from Jerusalem, plus an extra five from Acre; the fourteen of them wouldn’t stand a chance against the dozens of brainwashed citizens and citizens, with their apparent complete willingness to lay down their lives, which was almost as terrifying as their lack of free will...Altaïr was almost certainly dead. If Altaïr hadn’t killed Al Mualim, the mentor most likely killed him.





	1. Masyaf in Danger

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a couple chapters of buffer and I hope to have a regular update schedule of every Friday.

It was a losing fight from the start. That was obvious, even to the untrained eye. There were only the nine people that had come from Jerusalem, plus an extra five from Acre; the fourteen of them wouldn’t stand a chance against the dozens of brainwashed citizens and citizens, with their apparent complete willingness to lay down their lives, which was almost as terrifying as their lack of free will.

It's disgusting, the parody of loyalty, because there was simply no need for it. Malik knew that any one of them would have done exactly what Al Mualim had asked; he was their leader. The Mentor. What Malik saw before him, though, as he forced himself to remember to use the flat of his blade against the scores of semi-familiar men and eerily blank faces… It really drove home some of the things that Malik briefly had time to read in the journal that he had found in Solomon’s Temple.

The fighting seemed endless, the Assassins taken over by the power of Al Mualim seeming to keep coming. It was hard to imagine that their Brotherhood had so many men in its ranks, especially after the most recent siege. But then again, perhaps Malik had been in Jerusalem for too long.

Malik, Jabal of Acre, and their men were scraped and bruised, but none had collected any crippling wounds, as far as Malik could tell. To his eyes, they had dispatched with more than tirty men, leaving them unconscious or otherwise incapacitated. Malik himself was using his sword, of course, although he could see that Anwar had picked up a staff somewhere, and Rahim was throwing people around bodily.

Still, Malik and his men weren’t trying to conquer Masyaf; that would have been suicide. They only needed to buy Altaïr enough time to defeat Al Mualim and put an end to the spell that had taken hold of the minds of the people of the fortress and the village.

Their small group made their way around the backside of the fortress as Altaïr had instructed. By the time they had reached the library, they were still fighting. Malik could see strange lights flashing from the back garden but focused intently upon keeping the enslaved people from going to aid Al Mualim in their fight against Altaïr.

Malik ducked and weaved, struck and kicked, counting the seconds as the thralls continued to press in. The clash of blades and yells of the men that weren’t enthralled were deafening as they echoed through the high ceiling of the library.

It was taking a long time. Too long of a time. Malik couldn’t shake the feeling that something should have happened by then, especially since the strange lights had ceased and the garden had apparently fallen silent. He shook the feeling away, forcing himself to focus on fighting the enthralled people… At least until he saw Al Mualim standing behind the gate to the garden, watching them. In one hand he held the Apple, glowing faintly, and a bloody sword.

Malik went cold. It was only his instinct as a former assassin that kept him from freezing entirely. Al Mualim’s expression seemed to be a mixture of forbidding and, horribly, amused. The Dai knew that he did not have the time to analyze what this could mean, but even as he dodged a sloppy punch thrown by a civilian, he found his thoughts racing, coming up with no less than a dozen scenarios of what could have happened.

He knew almost immediately that he wasn’t the only one to notice Al Mualim. Malik heard one of their men cry out in pain at the same time Jabal shouted for a retreat.  
Malik gathered his wits and yelled, “Quickly, before he uses the same sorcery he used on them on us!”

The unenthralled men immediately rushed to follow orders. Those that could climb created an opening within the crowd and scrambled for the railing of the stairs leading to The Mentor’s study, likely to climb out the windows there. Those that couldn’t, including Jabal, Malik, and Anwar, who’s blows with the quarterstaff had slowed so that he could clutch his leg.

“Ismail! Assist Anwar! Everyone, to the stables!” Malik ordered.

Ismail leaped off of the wall he was climbing, forced his way through towards Anwar to help him. Meanwhile, Malik managed to make his way to Rafiq Jabal.

“I should have left this to the young ones,” Jabal grumbled in an attempt at humor as he dodged a slashing sword from a novice before kicking him back into another assassin.

“Stay close to me,” said Malik, slamming the hilt of his blade into Abbas’s face, most likely breaking his nose. “Once we break through the crowd, we’ll have to run.”

“Don’t be afraid to leave me behind, boy,” Jabal insisted.

Malik ignored him and kicked more assassins back. He forced his way forward, getting closer and closer to the entrance, making sure that Jabal was close to him, the Rafiq of Acre keeping the enthralled men, women, and occasional child away from Malik’s back while the Dai secured their exit. He could see a couple of his men drop to the ground outside, hesitating for a moment as they tried to decide whether to wait for them or not before bolting to the stables like they were ordered.

Malik risked one last glance towards the garden gate to see that Al Mualim was no longer visible.

Ismail broke through the crowds and sprint as fast as he could away from the fortress with Anwar gripping his back. Malik and Jabal managed to break through the crowd shortly thereafter. They made their way down the hill, the both of them throwing knives blindly into the crowd behind them, not even knowing for certain if their weapons were felling their opponents. 

Malik could, of course, run much faster than Jabal, but he was not going to leave him behind. He was going to try his damn hardest to make sure that none of the men they had brought were going to be left behind. In their line of work, deaths among their ranks were far from uncommon; Malik himself had just lost his brother a few months ago. While in charge of Jerusalem, however, not a single assassin under his command had died, not even when Hatim had been captured by Majd Addin’s guards. Malik intended to keep that record.

By the time that Malik and Jabal reached the stables, many of their men were already on their horses. There were several more that were making sure that the enthralled people of Masyaf weren’t getting to close. Malik could see Anwar and Ismail on the same horse, the former with a leg wound bleeding profusely.

Malik grabbed the reins of the black horse that he had rode on the way to Masyaf and swung onto its back. “Follow me!” he roared, urging his mount into a gallop once he made sure that everyone else was ready to ride.

“Will they follow us, Dai?” Rahim called after a few minutes of sprinting.

Malik hesitated. “I don’t think so.” Instinct told him that they would want to stay close to Masyaf and Al Mualim.

The men fell silent, the only sound the thundering of the horses’ hooves. Malik refused to think of what Al Mualim still being alive could mean for Altaïr and instead focused on the people that had come from Acre and Jerusalem. He did a quick headcount, making sure that they were all accounted for. To be honest, he was amazed that they had all gotten out alive, if not unscathed. The Dai of Jerusalem looked sideways at Anwar, silently assessing his wound.

“We should stop here,” Malik said, “tend to our injuries.”

The men slowed their horses to a halt. Anwar didn’t climb off of the horse so much as fall off. Meanwhile, Jabal clambered off of his horse and immediately went to assist him. Malik dug around in his pack, withdrawing a small first aid kit, passing it to the Rafiq of Acre. Jabal cut away Anwar’s pant leg to inspect the wound.

The other men tied up their horses and gathered in groups of two or three. Their expressions, to Malik’s eyes, seemed to be disgusted, horrified, and remorseful. Malik honestly felt similarly. People they had known their entire lives had lost their free will. Had attacked their friends and loved ones. Malik sat down near Jabal and ran his hand through his hair.

Altaïr was almost certainly dead. If Altaïr hadn’t killed Al Mualim, the mentor most likely killed him. Malik, as strange as it was to his own mind, regretted his loss. They had grown up together. They had been friends until Altaïr drifted away when he became a Master Assassin. The last few months, Malik had hated Altaïr’s guts and was not afraid to tell him so. Still, thought Malik bitterly, if Altaïr had died, he was glad that they had parted on good terms. There was that small comfort at least.

“Dai,” said Jabal, jerking Malik abruptly out of his thoughts, “I hope you can forgive me if I overstepped my boundaries before.”

Malik looked at him sideways. “I’m sorry?”

“I was the one that shouted for a retreat,” he said. “As the highest ranking person present, it should have been your decision to withdraw.”

Malik blinked in surprise. “Oh. No, it’s…”

Jabal had been in charge of Acre’s bureau since Malik was a teenager. Malik could remember when he was a novice, being in Acre for the first time; Jabal had been there, although a decade younger, of course. It was bizarre to think of himself as a higher rank than the old Rafiq. Malik had only been a Dai for a couple of months, so he still found himself getting used to his new position and his new role from time to time.

“I probably would have done the same if you hadn’t,” admitted Malik. He ran his hand through his hair again, sighing deeply.

“Don’t stress yourself out about this too much,” Jabal warned, finishing sewing up Anwar’s leg.

Malik raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t stress myself out?” he asked sarcastically.

Jabal smiled sardonically. “Don’t stress yourself out more than you have to. We just need to regroup and think about this logically.

“We need to come up with a plan of attack,” said the old man. Malik got to his feet and offered Jabal a hand, which he gratefully took. “Perhaps we should move discuss things… privately.”

“I agree,” said Malik, troubled. He glanced around at the assassins sitting here and there, and at their horses. “We won’t go far,” he announced to the group at large.  


Very few of the assassins looked up in acknowledgement as most of them still seemed to be lost in their own worlds. Malik didn’t blame them, to be honest; if he was allowed a moment, he would probably be feeling the regret and remorse that his brothers were feeling too. At the moment, though, he was feeling stressed and exhausted and angry.

Malik shot them one last glance before he and Jabal began to walk.


	2. Regrouping

“We need to gather our forces as much as possible,” suggested Jabal, once he and Malik had moved a decent distance away from the men that they had brought along from their respective cities.

Malik knew that there were usually ten assassins stationed permanently in each city, in addition to the bureau leader. Malik had brought nine men, leaving Hatim in charge of the bureau in his absence. The former assassin had also sent messages to Acre and Damascus, requesting reinforcements. There was no response from the Rafiq of Damascus, but Jabal had rushed to his aid, only able to spare five men as Acre was a much more volatile region. Malik did not blame Rafiq Rajab for not sending help, personally. He knew that the message he had sent was brief and didn’t provide too many details.

 _The Brotherhood is in danger,_ it had read. _Send men to Masyaf. Altaïr has uncovered a betrayal._

Many people in the Brotherhood were not afraid to show open loathing or at the very least contempt towards Altaïr, to put it lightly. While Malik knew that Rajab was still somewhat fond of him, but he wasn’t likely to send men who still loathed Altaïr to his aid based on the word of one man, even if that man was technically a higher rank.

Malik himself wasn’t likely to believe Altaïr either, even if he had forgiven him for the catastrophe at Solomon’s Temple.

Altaïr had been on his third mission in Jerusalem following his demotion. He was supposed to kill Robert de Sablé, but the Templar was never there, having sent a double in his stead.

“We may have thinned his ranks, but the man is clever. He goes to plead his case to Richard and Salah Al’din. To unite them against a common enemy … Against us,” Altaïr had said grimly.

“Surely you are mistaken. This makes no sense. Those two men would never-” Malik began.

“Oh, but they would,” started Altaïr, cutting him off quickly. “And we have ourselves to blame. The men I’ve killed– men on both sides of the conflict… men important to both leaders… Robert’s plan may be ambitious, but it makes sense. And it could work.”

Malik took this all in, his thoughts swirling. No matter what happened, there was always one thing that he felt he could fall back on; the Creed and the structure of the Brotherhood. “Look, brother, things have changed. You must return to Masyaf. We cannot act without our master's permission. It could compromise the Brotherhood. I thought… I thought you had learned this.” He did not mask his disappointment, resentment bubbling up in the pit of his stomach.

“Stop hiding behind words, Malik!” Altaïr yelled, slashing his arm through the air between them in agitation before beginning to pace back and forth on the other side of Malik’s desk. “You wield the Creed and its tenets like a shield! He’s keeping things from us. Important things. You’re the one who told me we can never know anything, only suspect.”

Malik looked at him in surprise, surprised not only that he had been listened too, but also that Altaïr had remembered his words at all.  
“Well, I suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper. When I’m done with Robert I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers.”  
Altaïr paused and looked at Malik sideways. “But perhaps you can go now?”

Malik frowned skeptically at the Master Assassin opposite. “I cannot leave the city.” Bureau leaders could only leave their assigned cities when prior arrangements had been made, including informing all of the assassins stationed there and a replacement sent there in his stead.

“Then walk among its people,” suggested Altaïr, waving a hand towards the wall of the bureau that separated them from the streets. “Seek out those who served the ones I slew. Learn what you can. You call yourself perceptive. Perhaps you’ll see something I could not.”

“I don’t know… I must think on this,” Malik said slowly. The man was either completely insane or completely correct, and either way left Malik fearful for what was to come.

Altaïr suddenly looked exhausted, although the Dai could see the determination in his eyes as he made his way toward the door to the courtyard. “Do as you must, my friend. But I will ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay, our enemy is one step further ahead of me.”

“Be careful, brother,” Malik said earnestly.

Altaïr shot a glance back at him over his shoulder, nodding in affirmation. “I will be. I promise.”

Malik shook his head out of his thoughts, bringing himself back to the present, facing the problem at hand. His gaze moved around the rocky, dusty landscape before moving back to Rafiq Jabal.

“Fourteen of us surely isn’t enough to take on Masyaf on our own,” the old man continued.

“We should get in contact with Rafiq Rajab of Damascus and maybe Rafiq Hamid of Tyre,” suggested Malik.

“Let's talk about Damascus, then,” Jabal said. “It should only take us two days to get there, correct?”

“Yes,” said Malik. He had traveled that route enough times as an assassin to know exactly how long it took. “We can have Anwar stay there, since he’s hurt…”

“That sounds wise,” Jabal said. “We should consider ourselves lucky that there weren’t any worse injuries.”

“Do you think Rafiq Rajab will help us?” Malik asked. “He seems to have ignored my message…”

“Of course he will,” said Jabal, waving a careless hand through the air. “Rajab lives for the Brotherhood and he will do anything he can to help us. He’s just reluctant to order his men around more than he has to. Now that we have proof of Al Mualim’s betrayal, he’s sure to help us.”

“I still have Robert de Sablé’s journal,” Malik offered.

Following Malik’s discussion with Altaïr, he had been sitting at his shatranj board when he remembered that there had been a table within the treasure chamber of Solomon’s Temple. There had been some papers on it and a book. A journal. Perhaps that book had held the answers he sought, if it had not been taken back by the Templars. He retrieved a torch and a flint and steel, every motion filled with purpose. He needed to know the truth.

Malik went back to Solomon’s Temple by himself. His stomach had been twisting with dread and fear, his frenzied flight from the temple fresh in his mind. Kadar’s death. His wounded arm. In fact, Malik could practically feel the stab wound as he headed down into the bowels beneath Jerusalem.

The temple, luckily, was empty save for one Templar; if Malik had to guess, most likely fled when de Sablé left the city. A woman, likely the same one Altaïr had encountered standing in for de Sablé, had been gathering some of the remaining things. Malik could tell just by looking at her pale, European face that she was exhausted and was not looking for a fight. She threw a throwing knife at Malik as the Dai drew his sword before fleeing.

Malik managed to locate the journal without too much difficulty, although he quickly began to wish that he had never found it at all. The account was private and filled with more revelations that Malik did not have time to read fully. What it briefly described was the potential power of the treasure that was hidden in Solomon’s Temple and of how, when obtained, he would share its power with the very ten men that their Mentor had sent Altaїr to kill, though the list also included Al Mualim himself, his named mangled to fit the swirling loopy letters of the language that read left to right. Rashid ad-Din Sinan. Ten names. The only man besides their Mentor left alive on that list was the famed Robert de Sablé who, at that very moment, Altaїr had been traveling to kill in Arsuf.

“Good,” said Jabal. “I suspect we’ll need it.”

“What I don’t understand is why Al Mualim didn’t use the Apple on us,” Malik said with a frown.

“I don’t know,” Jabal admitted. “He could have been tired from his fight with Altaїr or he simply wanted us to know that he was still alive.”

Malik frowned even deeper at the sound of Altaїr’s name. The Rafiq noticed and gently put his hand on Malik’s left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We lost a lot of good men today. I know what happened a couple of months ago… I know also that you used to be friends.”

Malik thought briefly of telling Jabal that there was still the slim possibility that Altaїr was still alive, but it would sound phoney even to his ears. There was no point in denying it; Altaїr was gone.

A deep sense of regret washed over him then. He felt emotionally numb and furious at the same time. He wanted to lock himself in a room to be alone and he also very much wanted to punch someone in the face… Preferably Altaїr, but…

“There’s no point in dwelling on it right now; people die. It happens,” Malik said dully, feeling like he was being stabbed in the stomach. “We need to focus on the problem of Masyaf.”

Jabal looked at him calculatingly for a heartbeat before nodding. “Very well.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t use the Apple on us for some reason?” said Malik, forcing his thoughts away from Altaїr. Jabal removed his hand from the Dai’s shoulder. “Maybe Al Mualim… I don’t know… Maybe we resisted it somehow?”

“If so, maybe some other people resisted it too,” Jabal said slowly.

“What do you propose?” asked Malik, stroking his chin.

“Have a small group stay near Masyaf,” said Jabal after a moment of reflection. “They can send patrols in to try to find people hiding out and see if there are any… survivors. They can also see if the enthralled have any sort of routine. Everyone else can head to Damascus.”

“Okay,” Malik said, nodding slowly as he absorbed the plan. “Okay. Maybe seven should go; four to stay out in the field for back up and three to sneak into Masyaf to search. The other seven can go to Damascus.”

“I can stay among the ones in Masyaf,” said Jabal. “You will take the others to get help in Damascus.”

“We will come back once we have reinforcements,” Malik said.

Jabal nodded. “Very well. For now, though, we must head back to rejoin our group and tell them the plan.”


	3. The Damascus Bureau

Sleeping on horseback was never comfortable. One often found themselves jostling awake, sliding off or any number of disagreeable things. As such, assassins always tried to avoid sleeping while riding a horse if at all possible. When giving missions, Al Mualim would usually allow the assassins he was sending enough time to spend the night in the kingdom on the way.

That was not an option just then.

Malik and the other assassins he was taking with him to Damascus slept sporadically along the way. He did not dream, and was grateful for it; he was confident that if he dreamed at all, they would be dark, violent, and confusing.

Meanwhile, he tried not to think about the last time he had rode straight somewhere on the horse without stopping, but he found himself thinking about it anyways. Malik had been riding back from Jerusalem, alone, his mind and heart heavy with the thought of his younger brother’s death. The motions of the horse had been jarring his uselessly dangling left arm at his side, the satchel containing the Apple swinging against his back. He had taken all of his hurt and rage and directed it at Altaїr. Malik’s determination _force_ Altaїr to know his what he caused was really the only thing that had kept him alive.

Eventually the enormous wall surrounding Damascus came into sight. Several of the assassins with Malik sighed in relief; Malik himself felt immense relief. However, he pulled in front of his men and called for them to stop.

“We can’t all go down as a group or enter the city together,” Malik said. “The guards are stupid, but if we do that they’re bound to notice.”

Baqir of Acre said quietly, “Never compromise the Brotherhood.”

Malik nodded. “Just because our Mentor has broken the Creed doesn’t mean we need to. We will regroup in the bureau.”

His men all nodded in understanding. Malik headed down the hill slowly and carefully, taking great care to avoid bumping into civilians. He reached the stables outside, dismounting and passing the stable keep a couple of coins for the care of his horse. He moved among a small group of civilians, none of whom even acknowledged the Dai.

The guards blocking the entrance of the city moved aside to allow the group inside. The group quickly dispersed once inside the city walls, Malik making a beeline towards the bureau. It had been a while since he had last been in Damascus. Still, he knew where the bureau was, and it did not take him long to get there at all. The real problem was finding a latter to use to climb up to the roof entrance, as Malik could not climb on his own anymore.

Eventually, though, he managed to find a way up. He dropped through the roof entrance, nearly scaring two novices that had been lounging in the courtyard to death. Malik fixed the fifteen year olds with a cold stare before walking into the office area, the air smelling heavily of clay.

Rafiq Rajab was a very cheerful man- almost sickeningly so, in Malik’s opinion- but with very little tact. Thus, Malik tried not to allow himself to get irritated when the first thing that Rajab said when the Dai walked through the door was, “Malik, how wonderful it is to see you! It’s been a long time. I think the last time I saw you, you were still wearing all white!”

“Safety and peace, Rafiq,” said Malik after a moment’s pause. He did not bother to correct him on his title, either; it was common for bureau leaders to refer to assassins by their first names, and even though Malik was a higher rank now than the Damascus Rafiq, he supposed that old habits died hard.

“I’d come and greet you properly, but…” Rajab gestured vaguely with his clay covered hands at the pot he was sculpting.

Rajab had been in the Damascus bureau for a very long time, several years, at least, although he was not fully placed in charge until near the beginning of 1191, when his teacher and the previous bureau leader had retired back to Masyaf. Still, by the time he became the official leader of Damascus, he was well prepared for it. Rajab was about five years older than Malik and had received much more training than the Dai before becoming the leader of his city.

He had carried out a correspondence with Malik and the other bureau leaders; primarily to trade information about which enemies were prominent in their respective cities, or which assassin was where. However, after a few weeks in Jerusalem, Malik finally gave in and admitted that he needed help, sending messenger pigeons to the other bureaus to request advice. While the Dai didn’t really think of Rafiq Rajab as a particularly wise man, the advice he had given Malik on properly running a bureau had been life saving.

“That's okay,” Malik assured him quickly. He paused and said, “I'm sure you know why I'm here?”

“Well, I got your pigeon, but it left out quite a few details,” Rajab admitted. “It wasn't enough to convince my men as many of them still view Altaïr with… distaste.”

Malik could feel, rather than see, Rajab’s eyes on his folded left sleeve.

“With all due respect, you could have ordered them to go,” said Malik pointedly.

“Yes, yes,” Rajab said, waving his words away. “I suppose I could have, but I think that there is enough ordering people around as it is. I always like to give my men a choice in the matter. Still, I saw fit to keep those two novices here in the bureau, just in case.”

“You were right to keep them here; it’s not safe in Masyaf. We’ve been betrayed,” Malik said grimly. From out in the courtyard, Malik could hear two of his men drop down from the roof.

“By whom?” asked Rajab.

Malik took a deep breath. “Al Mualim.”

Silence fell in the bureau. Rajab’s easy smile slipped from his face and he looked at Malik intently. The Dai could even hear the two novices out in the courtyard fall quiet.  
“That’s quite a bold claim,” said Rajab slowly, his normally jovial attitude gone. “I hope you have the proof to support it.”

“I have the words of dead men briefly relayed to me by Altaїr. I have the eyewitness accounts of what we saw in Masyaf from both my men and some that Rafiq Jabal was able to spare from Acre,” said Malik. “I also-” he reached into his travel satchel and withdrew the small leather bound book, setting it down on the clay-covered desk before him. “-have the journal of Robert de Sablé, where he names Al Mualim as a conspirator to seize the Holy Land for himself.”

Rajab sat back on his stool, his head clearly swimming. From out in the courtyard, Malik could hear two more men drop into the courtyard, one of them Anwar, judging by the gasp of pain that accompanied the sound of their entrance. Malik could also hear the two novices whispering to one another, both of them sounding frightened.

“What did you see in Masyaf?” the Rafiq asked in a horrified whisper.

“Men, women, and children under the spell of the Apple, the artifact I retrieved from Jerusalem on my last mission,” Malik said.

“Under the spell in what way?” asked Rajab.

“They had lost their free will and were completely under the control of Al Mualim,” admitted Malik. “They attacked us. We were hoping to fight them and buy Altaїr some time so that The Mentor could be defeated, but… we were unsuccessful.”

Rajab looked surprised and a slow dismay grew on his face. “Altaїr is dead?”

Malik didn’t say anything. He clenched and unclenched his fist at his side.

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that,” said Rajab mournfully after a moment or two of silence. “He was a fine young man.”

“Yes,” Malik agreed quietly. He hesitated and said, “I will miss him, but… Altaїr can’t be saved,” he said finally, “but if we’re lucky, Masyaf can. We have lost plenty of people in this betrayal, and we will mourn them, but we need to try to save our home.”

“How many men do you have?” asked Rajab.

“Seven, including me, although Anwar will likely have to stay here, as he is injured,” Malik said as his final two men dropped into the Damascus bureau. “Rafiq Jabal is still in the mountains with six more, watching for movement within Masyaf and to see if there were any who were able to resist the Apple’s call. He had to leave a several back in the city, including however many were in the city on mission at the time. How many assassins do you currently have in the city?”

“There are my usual ten, plus the two novices,” Rajab said thoughtfully. “I can spare all of them; it’s been comparatively quiet here since Altaїr killed Jubair al Hakim.”

“Will you come with us?” Malik asked.

Rajab paled. “No, no, I think I’ll stay here. I became a Rafiq because I can’t stand combat.”

Malik looked at him skeptically for a moment before nodded. “Anwar will have to stay with you too.”

“Does he need medical assistance?” Rajab asked.

“No, Jabal fixed him up on the road. If he just stays and rests, he should be able to keep his leg,” said Malik.

“Very well,” Rajab said, nodding in satisfaction. “We can also send a pigeon to Hamid to request reinforcements. It should not take long, once he gets the message. You should rest until then,” he added, eyeing Malik up and down. “You look dead on your feet.”

“It’s been a long week,” Malik admitted. It seemed like years had gone by since Altaїr had bade him to try to find out information about Al Mualim’s possible connection to de Sablé and the Templars.

“Rest,” insisted Rajab, gesturing with his still clay-covered hands towards the courtyard. He paused and added, “And you can tell everyone out there that they’re free to come in, if they like.”

“I doubt I’ll need to,” Malik said dryly. “You say that as if they all haven’t been listening to our conversation.”

Rajab grinned genially at him as Malik headed out into the courtyard. He looked at the six people he had brought with him to Damascus and the two novices. “Do I need to repeat what Rafiq Rajab said?”

They shook their heads in negation. Malik nodded before collapsing onto the cushions that were piled up on rugs around the area, exhaustion crashing over him as he stared up at the ceiling. He stayed stubbornly awake for a few minutes, before eventually giving in; some sleep would only do him some good at that point.

Malik rolled over onto his side and allowed his eyes to drift shut. He fell asleep slowly, the scent of clay in his nose and the sounds of Damascus humming in his ears.


	4. Night-Time Ponderings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I meant to post this on Friday, but it's been so busy with the holidays... I'll try to be better about it in the future.

Malik dreamed. For the first half of the night, his dreams were fitful; he tossed and he turned, his mind haunted with nightmares of things being just out of his reach. Mostly it was Kadar. Sometimes it was the Apple.

He was always impeded by something different. Sometimes he was standing waist deep in blood as thick as mud. Other times he was running through a burning city, trying to chase whatever it is. Sometimes he would find himself immobile, as if his arms and legs were bound behind him to some invisible object.

It was not at all unusual or unexpected for Malik to find himself dreaming of his younger brother. He saw him almost every night when he closed his eyes; the most peaceful dreams usually involved Malik helping to train Kadar, or making the two of them dinner. The worse ones were when Malik had to watch Kadar die again- seeing the look of surprise on his face, the wound on his neck grinning like a second mouth, the light fading from his eyes, the way that he made no attempt to catch himself when he dropped to the dusty stone floor of Solomon’s Temple… Luckily, the latter type of dream had become less frequent as time passed, though that wasn’t to say that they stopped altogether.

Malik woke up with a start, an ache deep in the arm that wasn’t there. It took him a few moments in his tired mind to remember where he was. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing slightly, and putting his right hand over his left shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop the ache. Malik did a quick headcount to make sure that everyone was still accounted for before flopping back onto the pillows.

As he laid there in Damascus’s bureau, Malik found his thoughts drifting away from Kadar and onto Altaїr.

When they were children, he had been called Altaїr Ibn-Umar; he hadn’t started calling himself “Ibn-La’Ahad” until he had become a Master Assassin. He had been a scruffy looking boy with lighter skin than everyone else in his training group, and his eyes looked almost golden. He looked thin, almost too thin, and there was always a scowl on his face when he looked at Malik. All that he really knew about Altaïr was that he had gotten into some fight or another with Abbas a few months ago and the both of them were punished accordingly for it. Really, Malik had known more about Altaïr’s father than the boy himself, but that was mostly due to the fact that his father talked about Umar a lot before he was beheaded by the Saracens.

Malik hadn’t really know why he disliked Altaïr, he just knew that he was an excellent opponent in the training ring; Altaïr- and Altaïr alone- really seemed to provide a challenge when the two of them were partnered together in the training ring. The rest of the novices in their group weren’t quite as difficult in battle.

It was really through Kadar that Altaïr and Malik started talking to each other. Altaïr had been too stubborn to get food from Masyaf’s kitchens after the death of his father and had been practically starving himself. Kadar had given Altaïr a loaf of bread; Malik had caught him and gave Altaïr a tongue lashing after swiftly sending Kadar back home to their mother.

“What are you doing!?” Malik had hissed. “Don’t encourage him like that!”

“Encourage him like what!?” demanded Altaïr.

“Encourage him to talk to strangers!” Malik said furiously. “It’s not safe for normal children to be so comfortable around strangers, let alone future assassins!”

“It’s not like I walked up to him,” Altaïr grumbled. “He came up to me.”

“That’s even worse!” Malik shrieked. “You should have sent him back to my mom, at least!”

The fight from there had devolved into the two twelve-year-olds rolling around in the dirt, hitting and punching and scratching each other. They had been broken up when Malik’s father stepped in, having just gotten back from a mission, but not before Malik had a gash on his leg and Altaïr had a cut bisecting the side of his lips. The Master Assassin took them both to the infirmary, waiting until the boys had been tended to by the healers before scolding them both.

Malik, in the darkness of Damascus’s bureau, smiled slightly at the memory. It was after that fight that he and Altaïr had started training with each other in the mornings; it started out where they each wanted to beat each other, but then it transformed into a friendship… for all that they both would have denied it when they were teenagers.

He was sorry that Altaïr was gone, as odd as the thought was. Whatever had happened between the two of them five months ago, there had been a point when they were friends… for most of their lives, in fact. They had shared both good and bad times with each other, not only having grown up together but have also gone on several missions with one another.

Malik wondered what he would have thought about Altaïr’s death in the past. A couple months ago he likely not would have been exactly… happy that he was gone, but he wouldn’t have been that disappointed. Four months ago he would have been glad to hear that he would never have to see or deal with Altaïr ever again.

He briefly wondered what he would think if the Malik from a year ago saw him… A crippled Dai, the leader of Jerusalem, helping to lead a group of assassins against Al Mualim, who was controlling all of Masyaf with an object that Malik himself had retrieved… Would the Malik from last year be ashamed by what he saw? Horrified? Disappointed?

What would Kadar think if he saw him then?

Malik would like to think that Kadar would have been proud. Kadar was the type of person who would be proud of his brother no matter what… Malik, however, liked to believe that he did it out of more than just a respect for his older brother. That he was _actually_ proud of who he was and what he accomplished and not just because they were related.

Kadar’s twenty first birthday was approaching. Malik silently resolved to go and visit him, provided that he got out of this mess with Masyaf and Al Mualim alive. It had been far too long; he had visited Kadar’s gravesite almost every other day towards the beginning of his leadership in Jerusalem, although he regretted to say that his visits became less and less frequent the busier he got in the bureau.

Malik himself turned twenty six nearly two months ago. He had not remembered, as he had been so busy trying to prepare all of his men to rescue Hatim from Majd Addin in the wake of the mess that Altaïr was to undoubtedly leave after the assassination.

No, it had been Altaïr that remembered Malik’s birthday, going so far as to get him some pastries on his way back to the bureau for the evening, after he had completed his investigation. Malik had been astonished not only that Altaïr had remembered at all, but also that he had bothered to do something for it.

That had been one of the things that made Malik take a long look at Altaïr; perhaps his quest for redemption was genuine after all? The Altaïr that Malik had known in the years leading up to 1191 would not have cared in the slightest what Malik was doing for his birthday. That, and there were reports both within Jerusalem and without of citizens being rescued from corrupt guards by an assassin, whose only distinguishing feature was a thin white scar on his lips. Malik’s informant network alone had swelled with people grateful to the Brotherhood.

Malik would miss Altaïr, certainly, but he could not allow himself the time to grieve. Not yet. Not while Masyaf was still in danger. Not while Al Mualim was still alive and enslaving the minds of the assassins and the innocent people that lived there.

Without a doubt, Malik had lost much within a short amount of time, but he would be damned if he allowed the Brotherhood to be lost to him as well.


	5. Streets of the City

A message from Rafiq Hamid arrived by pigeon the next morning. He stated that he would send seven men to assist them; as Tyre wasn’t too far away from Damascus, it shouldn’t have taken them a more than a few hours to arrive.

Malik, meanwhile, had never seen a bureau so busy. There were the six men he had brought along with him, the two novices, Rafiq Rajab, the ten men from Damascus that were to accompany them back to Masyaf once the assassins from Tyre arrived, and then there was Malik himself. It was loud and crowded so much that Rajab kicked almost everyone out after one of the novices had knocked over a couple of his clay pots.

As the highest ranking person there, Rajab could not force Malik to leave, even if he had wanted to. Malik was content to sit quietly in the back of the bureau, reading over the information written down in Robert de Sablé’s journal near Anwar, who was dozing lightly from on top of a mountain of pillows.

From the sound of it, he hadn’t quite been sure exactly what the Apple was or where it had come from, he just knew that it was extremely powerful.

 _La Pomme d'Eden a de nombreuses légendes qui y sont liées,_ de Sablé wrote.

He mentioned some of the legends surrounding the Apple; namely the Apple of Discord from the Greeks, although he listed a few others.

Robert de Sablé discussed the power the Apple potentially held. While he, specifically, seemed interested in it’s capability to control the minds of the people (as strange as it sounded to Malik, de Sablé wanted to use this capability for peace. He wanted to control the minds of everyone in the Holy Land to stop the Crusades), the Apple apparently could be used as a library of sorts. While the Templar Grand Master did not know the specifics, he did seem to recognize that the Apple held a lot of information.

That gave Malik pause for thought; perhaps if they got out of the whole situation, they could study the Apple? Use its power for the betterment of the Brotherhood, at least.

Malik continued to study the journal until his mind was swimming with French. Reluctantly, he convinced himself to set it aside so that he could focus on something else, at least for a little while, although he would certainly return to it when time allowed. Malik stood, stretched, and walked into the office area of the bureau where Rafiq Rajab was focusing intently on a clay pot.

The Dai cleared his throat politely to get his attention.

“Malik,” said Rajab, most of his attention still focused on his project.

“Do you have any maps of the Kingdom?” Malik asked.

Rajab paused for a moment, thinking. “Yes. I actually still have the ones that you sent me months ago. Check on the top bookshelf,” he added, gesturing in the back of the bureau.

“Thank you,” said Malik earnestly.

He moved to the back, as instructed, dragging a stool over with his foot. Malik plucked through the books, managing to locate the map, folded up between two books. The Dai felt a twinge of annoyance at the treatment of the map, but pushed it aside; it was Rajab’s map now, after all, and Malik had no say in what the Damascus Rafiq did with it.

Malik unrolled the map and frowned at it slightly. That map, indeed, had been one of the earlier ones he had made. He had been born with the inclination to use his left hand and it had been troublesome to try to write with his right. The sloppiness was evident in the map he held before him, judging by the lines wavering where they weren’t supposed to and the proportions were off in certain areas.

Malik made a mental note to make Rajab a new map of the Kingdom after all of this was over.

The Dai poured over the map. He marked where Jabal and the other men were hiding out with one of the shatranj pieces that were sitting on a board in the back of the bureau; Malik didn’t particularly mind disrupting the game, as it looked like it hadn’t been touched for months, and whomever had been playing it was likely long gone.

Malik poked and prodded the pieces, planning routes that the assassins would take back to Masyaf to meet Jabal. Now that there were so many of them, they certainly would not be able to move as a group without being noticed. No, it would be better if they left Damascus in groups and met up with Jabal slowly, a couple at a time.

It would be unwise for them all to take the same route as well, as Malik couldn’t be completely certain of the movements of the crusader troops after the defeat of Saladin’s Ayyubids, or even if Al Mualim would have sent his enthralled assassins to patrol. Malik knew very well that Al Mualim knew that he and the other men had escaped after his battle with Altaïr. If Malik was Al Mualim, he would have sent men in search of the bureau leaders and their assassins, but he also was not sure if the power of the Apple had a range and if the men would become self aware again.

Malik ran his hand through his hair in exasperation; what a mess he found himself in.

“Malik,” said Rajab, peering at him carefully. “You are, of course, my superior and I have no right to dictate, but may I suggest that you take a break and clear your head?”

It took a moment for Malik’s mind to make sense of the Rafiq’s words. “...What?”

“Perhaps you should meet the men from Tyre,” Rajab suggested pointedly.

Malik swallowed and nodded; it didn’t take a genius to figure out what the Rafiq really meant by his words. He sighed and stood, shifting from foot to foot for a moment before asking abashedly, “Is… there a ground entrance I could use?”

Rajab looked surprised. “Why don’t you-” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “Yes, it’s just back there. It’s locked since no one ever uses it, but you should find the key on the hook next to it.” He inclined his head to the doorway behind the counter.

“Thank you,” Malik said earnestly.

He sidled past Rajab, who had gone back to focusing his attention completely on the pot he was working, and slipped into the back of the bureau.

Architecturally, the Damascus bureau was very similar to Malik’s bureau back in Jerusalem. To the left, there was a shelf stretching to the ceiling with extra supplies. Malik usually kept extra medical supplies or ink on there, although it appeared that Rajab had a plethora of pots, most of them apparently empty.

Opposite the shelving was the doorway to Rajab’s bedroom. Malik noticed that his room was slightly larger than his own; back in Jerusalem, the room in which Malik slept was little more than a closet. It was only just large enough for a bed and a chest in which the Dai kept his meager possessions, having sold off many of the things that he owned before his departure from Masyaf that he didn’t feel he needed anymore or did not hold sentimental value.

Malik did not linger, not wanting to pry into Rajab’s private matters, and instead took the key off of the hook by the back door, exactly where the Rafiq had said it would be.  
The door, indeed, looked like it had not been used in many years. It took quite a bit of tugging to convince it to open and when it did, it lead out into an alleyway, just like the one back in Jerusalem. The alley was small and hidden from view and the door itself was mostly covered in climbing jasmine so that it would be invisible to any passerbys.

Malik locked the door behind him, slipping his key into his boot, before moving out into the crowded streets of Damascus. He drew a couple of odd and scathing looks as he always did, but other than that he remained unnoticed for the most part.

He could remember his last mission to the city. Malik had been paired with Rauf to kill a corrupt official that was kidnapping citizens and forcing them to take part in the crusade. Nothing major; he had gone on many missions that were similar previously. That particular mission was less than a year ago and it had gone off without a hitch. Of course, most missions did; Malik had been quite good at what he did, and Rauf wasn’t half bad either.

A couple years previous, the Templars invaded Masyaf and managed to take Al Mualim prisoner because of a double agent by the name of Haras. Many had people had died. Al Mualim tried to compensate for the loss of ranks by sending novices to shadow higher-ranked assassins on their missions. They did not rise up in rank as often, leading to novices a little bit older than the average age for a while. These novices would go on missions with assassins to get a “hands on experience.” It had made Malik very nervous; he was constantly worried each time Kadar went out on a mission with someone, afraid that he would never see him again every time he left Masyaf.

Among the dead in the attack was the previous sword training instructor. Al Mualim had shuffled so many people around, putting Rauf in charge of training the remaining novices. Rauf had expressed to Malik that he was worried about taking over the lessons and being in charge of so many children and teenagers. Malik often found that, when Rauf spotted him walking to or from the citadel, he would ask him to come help demonstrate a couple of moves or techniques. The Dai supposed that Rauf must have found someone else to help him demonstrate after he left for Jerusalem; Altaïr, if he had to guess. Rauf had always been very fond of Altaïr, even when they were children, always thinking that he was very talented and wishing to emulate him.

Malik supposed that Rauf was likely among those that were enthralled by Al Mualim. He felt a sudden rush of anger.

A group of guards shoved their way past him. Most of them barely spared the people around them a glance, but one of them hissed, “Out of the way, cripple.”

Malik didn’t bother with a response, all too used to those sorts of comments. Although his hand itched to reach for the knife he still carried on his person at all times, the Dai knew that it would not have been worth it to engage them, even if the guards hadn’t been already on their way. He allowed the guards to go on their way, his thoughts turning back to Al Mualim and Masyaf.

It was after the betrayal of Haras that Altaïr was promoted to Master Assassin. Altaïr, ignoring Malik’s suggestion that if he were able to save the Mentor he should be patient and come up with a plan, managed to get into Masyaf and save Al Mualim’s life. He was rewarded well for it; he became the youngest Master Assassin in the history of the Brotherhood at age twenty five, skipping several ranks.

Malik was furious. He did not think it fair that Altaïr was rewarded so for disregarding protocol; he did not come up with a plan and he was not at all patient in waiting for the correct moment to strike, based upon what Malik had heard of the rescue. Malik had worked hard to get where he was and Altaïr was raised above him in rank even further with very little effort. It did not help that he was sent on special, secret missions fitting his new role as a Master so that Malik didn’t get to speak to him as often as he would have liked (although, must it be said, that it would not have likely been a very long conversation, for both of them found their tempers short with the other during this period in their lives).  
When he did get to see Altaïr, he seemed to go out of his way to point out how Malik was at a lower rank than he was and lorded it over him. He also made it very clear to Malik that he did not feel the same way as he in terms of their match in skill. Altaïr seemed to take great pleasure in antagonizing Malik about these facts. That is, when he wasn’t angry. Rumors about some sort of Chalice and a woman named Adha filtered through the ranks, with some connection to Altaïr. When Malik attempted to inquire about these rumors, Altaïr would get unbearably vicious and cruel.

They drifted apart, that year of their lives. They had been friends when they were young, but to Malik’s eyes the Altaïr he saw that year was not the one that he had known when he was a child. They stopped speaking to one another entirely for several months until they had to when they were sent to Solomon’s Temple together with Kadar.

Malik tore himself away from his dark thoughts and forced himself to focus on the present.

It had been many months since he had last been in Damascus, but he still knew how to get around. Malik found himself at the front gate, guards standing in a group, only moving aside for the groups of religious scholars or refugees to get in and out of the city. Malik joined a small group of men moving out to the stables, breaking away from them when he spotted a bench upon which to wait for the men from Tyre.

Luckily, Malik did not have to wait long before he saw the group of men on horses at the top of the hill. The bad news was they chose to descend towards the city as a group.  
Malik swore and got to his feet as the men and their horses thundered towards the entrance to the city. The guards noticeably grabbed their sword handles, their posture stiffening, and they eyed the group of assassins wearily. Malik crossed around past the few merchant stands and the stables that were outside of the city towards the group, making sure that the guards would not see him.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” Malik hissed at the men. “Coming down as a group!? Are you trying to get yourselves noticed?”

A couple of men looked at him in surprise. “Dai?”

“We thought that-” one of the assassins began, his face only vaguely familiar to Malik.

“Look,” said the Dai, shaking his head, “you can't all go down to the city or enter as a group. The guards-”

As if just to prove Malik’s point, two of the guards guarding the entrance approached the group of assassins. Malik looked at the assassins pointedly and said, “Let me handle it.”

He approached the guard swiftly. “Can I help you?” asked the Dai.

“If you can explain why a large group of armed men are approaching the front gate of Damascus,” said the guard with a sneer.

“These are my students,” Malik replied smoothly.

“Your students,” the guard said skeptically, his eyes moving around the assembled assassins before looking back at Malik. Another guard from the front gate moved to join the first. “That would make you a… teacher?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?” grunted the first guard.

“Cartography.”

“Why would so many cartography students be so heavily armed?” the second guard asked with a frown.

“Who would want a cripple as their teacher?” said the first.

Malik bit back a response to the latter question. He opened his mouth to respond to the former as one of the assassins, clearly taking offense to a Dai being spoken to that way, grabbed his sword. Unfortunately, the guards saw and both reached for their swords as well. The other assassins grabbed their weapons as well.

“Scatter!” Malik ordered, noticing the final two guards leave their posts at the city gate.

The area dissolved into chaos. Citizens screamed and fled. The four guards started attacking one assassin each, the others from the Tyre bureau running in all directions; some were running through the now empty city gate, where more guards were coming to backup the first group upon seeing the commotion, some running around the city walls, others still were climbing them.

Malik moved to grab his own sword but one of the other assassins shook his head. He briefly locked blades with the guard he was fighting, shouting, “We’ll be okay, Dai! Go back to the bureau! We’ll meet you there!”

One of the guards moved to attack Malik, but he swiftly got a throwing knife to the throat and fell with a gurgle. Malik hated the idea of leaving them behind, but he had to admit the wisdom in it; if he left now, it would look like he was just another citizen that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once the other assassins had dispatched their enemies, no one would even remember that the assassins had even spoken to the Dai.

Malik swallowed his pride, released his grip on the hilt of his sword, and ran back into the city, alarm bells starting to ring in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I apologize for any mistakes I made in the (brief) amount of French in this chapter; I'm still a beginner, so I am confident that I made mistakes.
> 
> Note 2: I do parkour and I know that it is simply not possible to climb a wall of that height with one hand, no matter how good you are. Sorry Malik, I love you, but there is simply no way that you would be able to do a wall run out of the assassin bureaus.


	6. Reprimands and Strategy

Malik was the first to make it back to the bureau. The bells were still ringing and he suspected that the rooftop entrance to the building would remain closed for a while, as the guards tried and failed to find the assassins. The other assassins in Damascus who were not directly involved in the conflict that occurred outside of the city walls, if they were wise, would lay low for a while and wait for the excitement to die down. However, the men from Tyre would dispatch the guards who saw them before hiding.

Rajab scrambled to his feet when he saw Malik enter through the ground entrance. “What happened? Where are the reinforcements from Tyre?”

“Hiding, hopefully,” Malik said disdainfully.

“What happened?” he asked again.

“The men were… a little less than discreet when approaching the front gates,” said Malik, rolling his eyes.

Rajab looked disappointed. “Ah. I see.”

“It would be _nice_ if assassins could learn to utilize common sense,” Malik huffed, throwing his arm up into the air in exasperation and beginning to pace. “I swear, if I were running the Brotherhood, I would certainly make a few changes to the curriculum of the novices and trainees…”

“Soon enough,” promised Rajab. “Perhaps once Al Mualim has been defeated, you can-”

“No,” Malik interrupted, shaking his head with a frown. “I do not want to be the Mentor. I was merely being hypothetical.”

It was true; he already had his fill of paperwork as the leader of Jerusalem. He could handle the position, but he never felt any particular need to be in charge of their entire organization. Besides, now that they had been devastated by Rashid ad-Din Sinan (and surely many more will be lost by the time Al Mualim is dead), Malik was questioning the wisdom of just having one man in charge. Perhaps if there had been more people who were leading the Brotherhood, or at the very least close to Al Mualim or were assisting him, he would not have gotten as far as he did.

It was worth thinking about and proposing to the other men, once Al Mualim was dead. Having a council of the more senior members of the Assassin Brotherhood, Dai and Master Assassins alike, to discuss new ideas or specific contracts with the Mentor. Otherwise, perhaps there could be the creation of a new role… some kind of second in command position. Malik didn’t know.

Eventually, after an estimated twelve minutes, the alarm bells stopped ringing, signalling the guards giving up on their search for the Assassins. Rajab reopened the courtyard entrance and it wasn’t long before the assassins trickled inside. The ones that were not from Tyre were inquisitive about the bells; it was not common for the alarm bells to ring unless the guards were chasing after a murderer or the city was under attack. Malik waited until all of the men from Tyre had gotten back before gathering them all in the courtyard to reprimand them.

“What were you all thinking!?” demanded the Dai. “Who’s _painfully_ foolish idea was it to go down the hill towards the city as a group!?”

No one answered, but they all looked suitably ashamed of themselves.

Malik continued, “Do you have _any_ common sense whatsoever? Just what is Rafiq Hamid teach you over in Tyre? You’re worse than novices.” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose in disgust. He could hear a couple of people snicker from the other room, possibly the novices themselves; Malik would have to talk to them about respecting their elders.

“Sorry, Dai,” a couple of the men mumbled. The others all nodded.

Malik shook his head in irritation before calling to the other room to let the others know that they needed to go out to the courtyard, as they needed to discuss their plan. The Dai climbed upon the fountain as the rest of the men crammed into the already crowded quadrangle. From his vantage point, he did a swift headcount; twenty three, excluding Anwar, plus the small group hiding out in the mountains near Masyaf… That was certainly enough to put up a fight.

They could come up with a plan of attack once they regrouped with Jabal, but the way that the men from Tyre had arrived in Damascus had certainly proven that they would have to create a plan for their arrival with Jabal.

“Rafiq Hamid explained little,” said one of the men from Tyre once some of the clamor had died down. The men all placed their gazes upon Malik. “He said that we were betrayed most severely by Al Mualim.”

“What he did not tell us was the proof,” piped up another.

“The proof is in Masyaf,” said Malik. “Al Mualim has used the treasure known as the Apple to enslave the minds of the people with the hopes of one day taking over the Holy Land. I also have the journal of Robert de Sablé, who named our Mentor as a co-conspirator.”

There was a ripple of murmurs from the assassins from Tyre. The ones that already knew the details of Al Mualim’s betrayal looked grim. Malik was certain he didn’t look cheerful either, not that it mattered.

“Rafiq Jabal of Acre is waiting with a small group of other men in the mountains near Masyaf for reinforcements. For us,” said Malik. “Now that everyone has arrived, we can meet him.”

“How will we find them?” one of the men asked.

“We will divide into seven groups of three and one pair,” Malik said. “Anwar and Rafiq Rajab are going to remain behind. Each one of these groups will have at least one man from Acre or Jerusalem in them, as they know the location of the other assassins. We will create a plan from there.”

“What kind of plan?” someone demanded.

Malik looked at him and said simply, “A plan to get the Apple away from Al Mualim and to hopefully take his life.”

“Are there any Master Assassins at our disposal?”

“No,” Malik said. “They are all either under the Apple’s influence or dead.”

The last word seemed to hang in the air. Malik could read the expressions of the men, seeing them wonder if their friends and families were still alive. If they were alright. What was happening to them while their minds were not their own. Malik shuttered to think what would have happened if he had been forced to face Kadar while he was under the spell of the Apple. Malik was without a doubt the better fighter between the two brothers, but would he have been willing to raise a blade against the boy he had raised for half of his life?

“Divide into groups. We will leave the bureau _separately_ ,” Malik said pointedly, “at regular intervals. Every other group will take a different path from the previous and go slowly enough to not attract unwanted attention but quickly enough that it will not take forever to reach Jabal and the others.

“We all must be prepared for combat,” the Dai went on. “And I cannot guarantee that we will all get out of this alive. I believe that if my life is what is needed to be sacrificed for Masyaf to be free again it will be worth it, but that is no reason to not exercise caution.”

The group fell silent once again, Malik allowing his words to hang in the air. His eyes found the two novices; their faces looked stricken and frightened, but most of all they looked furious. They were furious because of what had happened to their home, all because of the selfishness of the man who was supposed to be their leader.

Malik’s mind moved regretfully to the handful of novices that they had been forced to kill. When he, Jabal, and the other men had reached Masyaf, they used stealth to get as close to the fortress as possible to try to figure out what was going on while avoiding the enthralled. It wasn’t long before they all heard the sounds of combat down the hill.

The Dai knew at once that it was Altaïr, whom he suspected just charged straight into Masyaf without any caution whatsoever. Of course they went to his rescue, finding Altaïr surrounded by young men in gray hoods, some writhing at his feet, others still attacking him. A shower of throwing knives filled the air, felling several of the novices and scattering the others. Altaïr looked around briefly in bewilderment before Malik had called out at him, waving to catch his attention.  
“Altaїr! Up here!”

Altaїr had glanced up, relief plain on his face. He ran up the hill and Malik met him at the top, his men following and standing guard. When Malik got a closer look, he saw that the Master Assassin was ragged, tears in his robes not repaired and blood splatters painting his arms and torso. It was obvious that his battle with de Sablé had taken quite a toll on him, not to mention how tired he was already following his battle in the cemetery with the Templar woman.

“You picked a fine time to arrive.” There was the hint of humor in his words, but underneath that worn phrase, there was thankfulness.

“So it seems."

Altaїr seemed to brace himself for something before he spoke next, a great foreboding in his voice. “Guard yourself well, friend. Al Mualim has betrayed us.”

Malik nodded. “Yes. Betrayed his Templar allies as well.”

Altaїr clearly had not anticipated that answer, and the shock was evident on his face. “How do you know?”

“After we spoke I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon's Temple.” Malik relayed all he knew as quickly as he could, bitterness and anger in his tone. “Robert had kept a journal, filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my heart, but it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altaїr. All along our Master has used us! We were not meant to save the Holy Land but deliver it to him. He must be stopped!”

“Be careful, Malik. What he's done to the others, he'll do to us given the chance. You must stay far from him.”

Malik scowled. Altaїr could not seriously suggesting that they just leave. “What would you propose?” said the Dai, sarcasm obvious in his tone. “My blade is still strong and my men remain my own. It would be a mistake not to use us.”

Altaїr looked frustrated for a moment, pacing slightly and clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He looked up at Malik, Jabal, and their small group of men and finally there was some sense in his eyes when he spoke again. “Distract these thralls then. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim.”

“I will do what you ask.”

“The men we face, their minds are not their own. If you can, avoid killing them...” Altaїr trailed off, glancing back sadly at the bodies of the novices.

Malik nodded. “Yes. Though he has betrayed the tenets of the Creed, it does not mean we must as well. I'll do what I can.”

The humbleness of Altaїr’s manner both shocked and astounded him. Malik could not imagine the Altaїr he had known several months ago behaving in that way. “It's all I ask. Safety and peace, friend.”

Malik met Altaїr’s amber gaze. “Your presence here will deliver us both.”

Malik looked at the men gathered in the Damascus bureau. He wished that they had more talented fighters at their side like Altaїr, but Malik was grateful for all the help that they did have. He looked at the Assassins, noting how they were already forming small groups of their own. The novices wanted to remain together, but Ismail was convincing them that it would be for the best if they split apart for a while. One was arguing against the older Assassin and the other fell silent for a little while before turning to his friend to convince his friend that it would be wise if they were in separate groups.

Once everyone seemed to be in groups and had all discussed with each other about which route they wanted to take, Malik and the more argumentative novice being the odd ones out, the Dai called, “The first group will depart at once.”

Three men broke away from the group. Malik climbed off of the fountain so that the Assassins could climb out of the bureau. He waited ten minutes before sending the next group, and so on until it was just the Dai, the novice, Anwar, and Rafiq Rajab left.

“Safety and peace,” Anwar said to the both of them.

“I will eagerly await the pigeon bringing news of your success,” said Rajab. “The fate of the Brotherhood depends on you.”


	7. Mountain Roads

The sun was starting to dip below the horizon. The sand and dust beneath the horses’ hooves was transformed into a brilliant yellow in the light and the stones and crags surrounding them had turned orange. There were very few people on the road surrounding them and those that were were civilians. There was no sign of any soldiers, so that their journey back to Masyaf would seem almost… peaceful.

Malik could tell without looking that the novice was scowling. The Dai supposed that the boy was not happy about being separated from his friend, but he felt very little sympathy for him. He was still young, of course, but he would have to get used to it; it wasn’t like the both of them would be able to go on missions frequently once they were grown.

“Stop sulking,” Malik said, glancing back at the boy.

The boy jumped slightly. “I’m not sulking!”

Malik smirked at him as if to ask the novice who the hell he thought he was kidding. The boy met the Dai’s gaze boldly.

“You two are in the same training group?” Malik said conversationally, slowing his horse so that he was riding next to him.

“Yes,” said the novice. “Karim and I have been friends since we were children.”

“You are still a child,” Malik pointed out.

“I’m fifteen,” he said, “I’m practically an adult. Mama said that if I weren’t in Masyaf, I’d already be fighting in the crusade.”

“What’s your name?” asked Malik belatedly.

“Haidar.”

“I’m Malik Al-Sayf. You’ll see him again soon,” he promised.

“I know who you are,” said Haidar quickly. “My older brother, Muhammad, said that you’re a hero. Teacher Rauf says the same thing.”

“I’m not a hero,” said Malik, bewildered.

“Muhammad said that you prevented the Templars from getting that treasure,” Haidar said. “You also ordered Karim to shut the front gate before the Crusaders came. You saved a lot of people.”

Malik didn’t remember much of his frenzied flight out of Jerusalem and back to Masyaf, to be honest. Things really started coming into focus when he stumbled into Al Mualim’s office with the Apple, leaving a trail of russet stains behind him, but he did vaguely remember barking an order at a frightened novice at the stables before rushing up to the fortress… The Dai wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t recognized the boy upon his arrival in the Damascus bureau, provided what Haidar was saying was true, and what reason would he have to lie?

“Teacher Rauf really respects you,” added Haidar.

“The both of us were in our training group together,” Malik admitted.

“With Altaïr?” Haidar asked, a note of bitterness in his tone.

“Yes, among others,” said the Dai, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

Haidar met his gaze again boldly for several moments before the novice sighed and looked down at his hands, gripping the reigns of the horse. “My father died when the Templars attacked a few months ago, and Al Mualim said that it was Altaïr who-”

“No,” Malik interrupted curtly. “I know that that was what Al Mualim said, but the Templars were following me, not Altaïr. It was my blood trail that lead them to Masyaf. I am sorry about your father, but if you choose to hold on to your anger, direct it towards me.”

Haidar fell silent, looking hurt and confused. Malik continued, “If I could offer you some advice, though; holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. I was angry at Altaïr for a very long time, blaming him for my losses, and my fury accomplished nothing.”

When Malik had first received the position of Dai, he had been told that he was to act as a teacher and a guide to the other members of the order, particularly the novices. He tried to do so as much as he could, but he didn’t find himself in the company of novices frequently. Of course, every now and then some younger assassins would visit the bureau to learn of its location and the city of Jerusalem itself. There had also been Altaïr when he was first demoted. Other than that, he did not frequently find himself dealing with children, he was grateful to say. He freely admitted to himself that he did not have much patience for them.

Haidar fell silent, hesitating. “Muhammad knew your brother.”

“Did he,” said Malik, not as a question.

Haidar nodded and did not speak anymore. Malik did not say anything either, both Dai and novice lost in thoughts until they rounded a corner on the path and a shout ran through the air. A small group of crusaders- around eight, by Malik’s estimation- had spotted them. Malik drew two throwing knives, throwing them into the crowd, before jerking the reins of his horse around. He could hear a couple of dying gurgles as his knives hit their marks.

“Don’t go too far ahead,” Malik barked at Haidar.

The novice looked alarmed but nodded. He urged his horse ahead, still staying close to Malik so that they wouldn’t get separated. Malik continued to throw knives until their pursuers had all fallen, his horse still following Haidar’s. That meant that he only had two knives left; he would have to restock as soon as possible.

“Are you hurt?” asked Malik, once he caught up with him again.

“No,” said Haidar.

“Good,” the Dai replied. “We need to keep going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short. :)
> 
> Thank you all for your continued interest in this story. Comments keep me motivated! *hint hint*


	8. Outside of Masyaf

There were storm clouds overhead when Malik and Haidar finally arrived in the designated meeting spot with the other assassins. As they approached, the group looked like a cross between a resting spot for an army and a refugee camp. People had set up blankets as tents. Several horses were tied up to a dead tree nearby, crowding it so much that the tree itself was bent over and looked as if it would snap. The “tents” were in the shape of a circle around a makeshift fire pit that was empty save for a few blackened branches.

Haidar dismounted his horse and immediately ran to greet his friend, Karim, who was watering the other horses. Malik considered calling after him to tie up his horse properly, but decided against it; after all, there was certainly a good possibility that they wouldn’t both be alive by the time they managed to retake Masyaf, if they managed to do so at all.

One of Malik’s men from Jerusalem, Ayal, approached him as the Dai dismounted. “I can take care of the horses,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Malik. “Where is Rafiq Jabal?”

Ayal flagged Qamar over, who stated that Jamal was meeting with the lookouts. Ayal promised that he would take care of the horses while Qamar lead Malik to Jabal.

Malik the path they were taking was not a path on any map they had and was not at all worn. It was somewhat steep, although not enough to cause any real discomfort, and very narrow. To a trained assassin it would not pose a problem. However, it would be impossible to get a horse up there. Nevertheless, Malik made a mental note of where the path was; he wanted to make certain that no one would be able to use the path to their advantage in the future.

“What happened while I was gone?” Malik asked.

“Rafiq Jabal will explain everything, Dai,” said Qamar.

“You gathered enough information?” Malik pressed.

“In my opinion,” he said with a slight shrug. “Once again, Rafiq Jabal will explain everything.”

Once they reached the top, Malik and Qamar found two assassins and Jabal watching the path below. A ways away, they could see the front gates to Masyaf, but they were as silent and immobile as they had been several days ago when they approached after Altaïr killed Robert de Sablé.

Jabal looked pleased to see them. Qamar bowed respectfully and headed back towards the campsite as the Rafiq said, “Safety and peace, Dai.”

“Safety and peace,” Malik said. “Can you tell me of what the men have learned while I was away?”

Jamal waved his hand at the two assassins who were to be keeping watch, indicating that he wanted to speak to Malik alone, telling them that he would call them back when the two of them were all done.

“Yes,” said Jabal grimly. “We have sent men into Masyaf to observe those under Al Mualim’s control. I’m afraid we lost two.”

Malik looked dismayed. “They’re dead?”

“No,” Jabal said quickly, “Al Mualim caught them and they have joined the others.”

“Well… at least the number is small,” said Malik with a sigh. “What else have you learned?”

“The ones that are brainwashed do not seem to need to eat or sleep,” Jabal continued. “They simply stand still, the citizens blocking the main entrance to the citadel, many of the assassins in several places that are just out of sight if you were to walk down the main path from the front gate to the fortress. A few citizens walk around sluggishly, acting as eyes and ears, so we guess.”

“Wonderful,” Malik said sarcastically.

“Al Mualim, for the most part, seems content to just sit in the fortress.”

“Alone?”

“Apparently so. I admit that our men have been unable to get too close to the fortress itself, let alone inside,” Jabal said. “It’s too well guarded.”

Malik scratched his chin. “Perhaps… Would it be possible to send in a small group of men to the fortress if there was a large enough distraction?”

Jabal frowned. “To what end?”

“To get the Apple,” said Malik.

“Is that not basically what Altaïr tried to do?” Jabal said, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” said Malik. “He walked straight into the fortress with no thought of stealth whatsoever with the plan to kill Al Mualim. What I’m proposing is not challenging Al Mualim to battle- that would be suicide. No, I think that we should try to retrieve the Apple. If we can get it away from him and maybe free the people…”

Jabal considered him, a small frown on his face. “You wouldn’t be thinking about the one going into the fortress?”

“Well…”

“Are you sure that’s wise? You are not an assassin anymore,” Jabal reminded him gently.

“I know,” snapped Malik. “But you said yourself before that my stealth is that of a master.” He had said so to Malik’s face after his last mission in Acre. “Not to mention that we lack any Master Assassins to go in my place, and I am skilled at using a sword if the need arises, even if it is my non-dominant side.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Jabal said thoughtfully. “But-”

“On top of that,” Malik added with a sardonic smile, “Al Mualim is expecting us. He will be expecting someone to come in and try to kill him again. He will not be expecting a cripple to try to steal the Apple. Again,” he added.

“Are you certain that getting the Apple away from Al Mualim will free Masyaf’s people?” Jabal questioned.

“Not entirely,” admitted Malik, “but at the very least we will get it away from Al Mualim so that he can’t use it to do something even worse.”

“And if Al Mualim manages to control your mind?” the Rafiq asked.

“Then make sure that everyone escapes,” Malik said grimly. “Don’t come back for me.”

Jabal nodded. “Let’s tell the other men. We can at least discuss things with them.”

“Of course. I know that this isn’t exactly a Greek democracy, but we can talk to them what we’re thinking and if anyone has thought of something we haven’t that could be very helpful,” said Malik. “They’re as much a part of this as we are.”

“We managed to locate a couple of people hiding near the river who were able to resist the Apple’s call,” Jabal said. “A scholar from Al Mualim’s library, two novices, and three villagers, one of which is ten years old.”

“The villagers and the novices should stay behind,” said Malik quickly. “There were two back in Damascus that I brought with me. Perhaps they could… act as guards for the villagers. Who’s the scholar?”

“Mahdi,” Jabal said. “He can’t fight for shit; he was never an assassin, like us.”

That earned Jabal a small smile from Malik. “He can stay behind too. Let’s go back down. The two that are keeping watch… they can stay up here. We will send someone up later to tell them our plan.”

Malik and Jabal headed back down the cliff and back to the camp. Immediately, Malik spotted Haidar talking to Karim, the latter with an open book on his lap and the former waving his arms animatedly. Looking around, he could see the child that Jabal had mentioned, fidgeting nervously with her doll next to whom Malik assumed to be her older, teenage sister. The air was alive with buzzing conversation from the gathered citizens of Masyaf.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention,” shouted Jabal.

Immediately the hum of chatter ceased. Even the little girl looked up at the Rafiq with wide eyes. Rafiq Jabal swiftly and thoroughly explained Malik’s plan, answering the questions that he himself had asked before the other men could ask. Malik could see the skepticism on the faces of many of the men slowly turning thoughtful.

“It could work,” one muttered.

“In theory,” said another.

“How long would this take?” asked another.

“Give me an hour and a half to get inside the fortress and get the Apple,” said Malik. “Hopefully I will be able to… stop whatever it’s doing to Masyaf.”

“If you’ll forgive my candor, Dai,” one of the men piped up skeptically, “but there are so many variables and an endless number of things that can go wrong.”

“Sometimes,” said Malik, “that’s the way things have to be. If we try to work out a completely perfect plan, we will be camped out here for decades. Unless, of course, you have a better plan right now that you would like to share with us,” he added pointedly, looking first at the man who had spoken and then at the faces of other men. When no one spoke, he said, “I know it’s not perfect, but it’s all we’ve got.

“We can do this tomorrow unless anyone objects now,” he said. A couple of men fidgeted with their elbows, acting like they were going to raise their hands to protest, but they looked around to see that no one else was and lowered their elbows.

“Fine,” said Malik. “We can depart tomorrow.”


	9. Inside the Fortress

Malik found Masyaf pretty much unchanged from the last time he had seen it, but that did not make it any less disturbing. He elected to move along the rooftops for as long as he could, and he was right to do so. Many assassins lurked in just out of sight positions; inside of alleyways, around corners, and behind doors that had been left ajar. They did not even look up as Malik passed above them, which was alarming, because they of all people should know of the potential dangers that come from above.

In the first few weeks after the disastrous mission in Solomon’s Temple, Malik had found that his balance had been painfully off; he couldn’t even walk properly, with weaving steps and having to stop frequently to catch his breath or brace against the wall. There had been other things he had had to get used to, of course, but his abrupt loss of balance was a major one.  
Now, though, a few months later, he was if not used to it, had more control (he had spent almost twenty six years learning to balance himself one way and that was not going to be undone in a few weeks). Malik was able to make it close enough to the fortress without stumbling too much when jumping over the gaps between buildings. He wasn't as fast as he once was, but at least he hadn't injured himself.

“So far so good,” he whispered to himself.

He looked up at the watchtowers on the fortress. While he didn’t _see_ anyone, he couldn’t be certain, and one could never be too safe. Malik moved as close to the cliff as he could without falling off. Once he approached the fortress itself, he skirted around the edge with his hand on the wall as he moved through the gates so that if there were people up there, they would only see him if they were looking directly downwards.

Once through the gate, Malik saw a large group of civilians crowding the entrance to the fortress. He froze for a moment, unnerved by having so many eyes on him at once, and he had to remind himself that they couldn’t actually _see_ him. It was similar to how the civilians had been standing before, but unless he was mistaken, they were standing even closer together.

He pushed his way through the crowd as gently as he could. The people didn’t even react to Malik’s presence, simply staring ahead. It was…. Odd. He made his way inside as swiftly as he could once he heard the sounds of Jabal’s distraction from outside.

Malik stood in the entrance of the library, scanning the room and finding it completely empty. He was so used to seeing scholars flitting about here and there, reading scraps of parchment, shelving books, or teaching novices how to read or write in different languages. It was in that very library that Malik learned French from Dai Mathusalem. When he says he learned French, he mostly sat there at the table writing and having the Dai hit him on the leg with his cane whenever he caught Malik writing with his left hand. Altaïr had laughed at him more than once about it, as he found it hilarious that the “goody two-shoes” would always get in trouble in that lesson rather than himself.

Not that Malik hadn’t been completely innocent as a child. He and Altaïr frequently got in to trouble together because they got into so many fights. Despite that, to their teachers, Malik was still seen as the one that always took everything they talked about so seriously and Altaïr was seen as the one who was talented, but was so blasé about their lessons. Teacher Labib had to frequently remind Altaïr to pay attention. Malik always did the same, although usually by kicking him in the shins and looking at him pointedly.

Malik moved up the stairs and peered out into the garden. He looked out at the stones in the garden, noting several blood stains. He figured that that must have been where Altaïr fought with Al Mualim. Looking at the arc of the blood, it was too wide to have just been from their Mentor. He stared out into the garden for a long time, his eyes hard and eyebrows drawn together, before tearing his gaze away.

Al Mualim would not have put the Apple in the garden; that would be foolish. If Malik were him, he would keep the Apple close to him at all times.

Malik made his way up the stairs towards the Mentor’s office. He was careful not to disturb anything, lest he make a sound by mistake or if he makes a clean getaway with the Apple, he can’t make it stop controlling the minds of everyone in Masyaf, and Al Mualim happens to notice that things had been moved around.

There were so many _if_ s in the situation. Malik didn’t like having there be so many things that could go wrong that he had no way of controlling. He had brought his sword and his remaining two throwing knives with him in case things got… worse, but that didn’t mean he wanted to have to use them. If all went according to plan, he would just be in and out with the Apple as swiftly as possible.

Malik’s eyes briefly scanned the various reports scattering the desk before glancing at the large window and balcony overlooking the garden. He looked at the desk and the area in front of it, feeling hollow.

“ _Gone. Because of you!_ ”

“ _Robert threw me from the room. There was no way back, nothing I could do-_ ”

“ _Because you would not heed my warning! All of this could have been avoided! And my brother… My brother would still be alive! Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today!_ ”

Malik shook his head out of the memory. He moved along the shelves, on the upper level, scanning them fruitlessly for the Apple. He sighed and shook his head; he was going to have to go up to the Mentor’s tower.

He crossed to the back of the office and opened a door in the corner, behind a couple of shelves. Malik made his way up the stone stairs, his footsteps echoing against the walls. Every now and then he passed by a small window, through which Malik could catch a glimpse of Jabal and the men he was in charge of fighting down below. He tried not to dwell on them too much; time was of the essence. 

Once Malik reached the top of the tower, he reached for the door. He pushed it open so slowly so that it wouldn’t creak.

Malik had never been in the Mentor’s tower before. It wasn’t particularly large; compared to some of the other towers in the fortress. He knew from the history of Masyaf that the Mentor’s tower was smaller on purpose so that it wouldn’t be as easy to hit or as much of a target, should the citadel fall under siege. The bedroom itself wasn’t very large either. There was a bed, wide enough for the Mentor and his wife, should he have one, with a window surveying the fortress and part of the town. At the foot of the bed was a large chest in which Malik only found several different sets of spare robes.

Opposite the bed, next to the door, was a desk. There were a handful of papers scattered over its surface, a quill, and a bottle of ink that had apparently been improperly corked and was partially dried. Upon closer inspection, the papers on the desk were detailing some of the powers that the Apple held.

Malik opened the desk drawers, finding the first one filled with extra parchment. He crouched down and opened the second one, ink bottles both full and empty rattling as he did so. As Malik closed the drawer, cursing under his breath, he suddenly froze when he heard a sound behind him.

It was the unmistakable sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath.

Malik stood slowly, his hand falling on his own sword. He instinctively moved to the side as the sword of the other as it hit the desk. The desk shuttered and several fell to the floor. Malik rolled out of the way, drawing his sword as he did so, raising it just in time to prevent his opponent from landing a blow on his head.

He almost dropped his weapon in shock as he met the eyes of his attacker. His could not comprehending what he was seeing. He wondered if his mind had snapped, and if he was simply seeing things now because what he was seeing could not be true. Because the man attacking him was not Al Mualim.


	10. Throwing Knife

It was Altaïr.

He swung his sword at Malik again, his gaze as eerily blank as the ones of the citizens and other assassins. He looked at Malik with no recognition, no emotion.

Malik blocked his blade, deflecting it to the side; there was no point in getting locked up in pointless battles of strength that he would not win without leverage of his other arm. Altaïr did not even react beyond snaking a fist to Malik’s gut. Malik grunted and used the force of the blow to back away from Altaïr to put more distance between the two of them and get his sword back up.

“But- you’re dead!” Malik gasped, lashing out again with his sword. Altaïr negligently deflected it.

Malik blocked another blow with his sword, Altaïr bearing down on him, using his weight to drive him down to one knee. He kicked out at the Dai, who turned his body to take the blow to his side, allowing him to throw Altaïr off with a grunt. Malik nearly sent Altaïr to the ground with his own kick to the back of his knee.

“What are you doing you idiot, it’s me!” snapped Malik, striking out at Altaïr furiously with his blade.

Malik cried out in shock when Altaïr stopped blocking for a moment, a look of confusion flickering on his face, the Dai’s blade scoring a line on Altaïr’s forearm. The Master Assassin’s face returned to the blank expression that all the brainwashed people had. He punched Malik in the face, taking advantage of his surprise. Malik’s head snapped back as knuckles caught his jaw with an ugly crunch, forcing his mouth shut painfully over his tongue.

Malik reeled, trying to get more distance between them as his vision swam, blocking two blows from Altaïr reflexively with his sword before he got a hold of himself. He found that odd; why wasn’t Altaïr attacking him more? Malik had fought with Altaïr practically their whole lives and he knew how _good_ the other was. Sure he was fighting well, but not as well as he usually did.

Malik dropped his sword, kicking it closer to the door, before dropping to the ground himself. He rolled out of the way of Altaïr’s slashing sword, snatching one of his throwing knives. He yanked at Altaïr’s robes, pinning him briefly to the ground. That gave Malik enough time to retrieve his sword and run from the room, fleeing down the stairs; fighting like that in such a closed space was never a good idea. There was barely enough room to swing his sword.

He was certain that Altaïr would be going after him, so Malik kept shooting glances back behind his shoulder, keeping his sword at the ready. It wouldn’t do to fight on the stairs, either; not only would Malik literally be fighting an uphill battle, but every time he swung his sword it would hit the wall, whereas Altaïr would be able to have full range with his own blade.

Malik made it back to the office before Altaïr caught up with him. Instead of trying to attack him with his sword, however, Altaïr kicked him in the stomach, sending the Dai stumbling backwards and forcing him to lose his balance. Malik fell down the stairs and hit every step hard and with a loud, agonizing _thump_.

All air was pressed from Malik’s lungs as he landed on the stones at the bottom of the stairs. Coughing and wheezing he tried to get up again and stumbled a few feet away from the stairs. Dizzily, he increased the distance between himself and the stairs as Altaïr descended, watching him. The civilians in the doorway still had their backs to the both of them, and they were standing so close together that it would be impossible to get through the crowd with Malik’s sword still out without skewering someone by mistake.

“ _Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent,_ ” thought Malik. “ _Even if they are under Al Mualim’s control, they are still innocents. No, I will have to try fight Altaïr and find Al Mualim at the same time._ ”

Malik scrambled to his feet, stepping and swinging. Altaïr punched him again, which was quickly followed by a swift kick. Malik lunged forward, then feigned to the side, successfully catching Altaїr off his guard. He swung his sword around, catching the other assassin’s ankle with his foot and brought him down to his knees, resting the flat of his blade on the back of Altaїr’s drawn hood.

“Get a hold of yourself, Altaїr!” hissed Malik. There it was again- that flicker of confusion on his face. “I don’t want to have to kill you!”

“Now, I think we both know that’s not true.”

Standing at the top of the stairs was Al Mualim, apparently having appeared out of nowhere. He held the Apple in one hand and he surveyed the two of them with an expression of mild disappointment in his eyes. There was nowhere really that Al Mualim could have hidden and Malik briefly wondered if he had used the Apple to somehow make himself invisible. Ordinarily, Malik would have thought that impossible, but many things he had thought such had happened within the last several weeks.

“I admit I’m a little surprised to see you here. I would have thought that, of the people hiding out in the cliffs, Jabal would have sent someone who wasn’t crippled. I’m also surprised that you haven’t already killed Altaїr.” Al Mualim began to pace slightly, looking at the Apple in his hand. “He was always the better fighter, but I had to sacrifice some of his skill to get this to work on him properly…”

Malik’s face burned with shame at Al Mualim’s words. Altaїr, however, moved like liquid silk as the Mentor spoke, his robes blurring in Malik’s vision. He felt another fist in his gut, and then an elbow cracked down on his back. Altaїr ferociously attacked Malik, swinging so brutally that the Dai had to stumble backward several steps. Altaїr followed up with a feint, a lateral swing and then a vertical one, driving Malik back more and more.

Malik ducked under a strike and grabbed Altaїr’s shoulder harness; Altaїr couldn’t counter grab, so instead he brought his knee up to Malik’s ribcage. Malik dropped and rolled, trying to get behind him. He swung his sword and Altaїr blocked it, but the follow up strike was at an angle that Altaїr clearly had not been expecting.

Altaїr snaked a foot around Malik’s ankle and pulled, sending the Dai stumbling backwards once more. Malik could feel his back press against the wall of the library. He was quite literally cornered. He and Altaїr locked blades again briefly before the Master Assassin twisted so that Malik’s blade flew out of his hand.

Malik groped for the last weapon he had left; the throwing knife. Altaїr advanced, angling his sword at the Dai. Al Mualim stood at the top of the stairs, watching the both of them fight with interest, still holding the Apple in his hand.

The way that Malik saw it, he had two choices. The first thing he could do was throw the knife at Altaїr. Hopefully that would give Malik enough time to grab Altaїr’s sword to rush Al Mualim before the Mentor could use the Apple to take over the Dai’s mind too.

The other thing that Malik could do would be to throw the knife at Al Mualim and get gored by Altaїr’s sword on the off chance that if he somehow managed to kill the Mentor, it would somehow free the people of Masyaf from the Apple’s grip.

Malik took a deep breath and made his decision.

Altaїr slashed his sword. Malik threw the knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure that that twist surprised absolutely no one.
> 
> Also, sorry my chapters are so short! I don't know what's wrong with me; usually when writing my chapters are twice this length...
> 
> Lastly, thank you for suffering through my fight scenes. I'm notoriously awful at them.


	11. Bloodstains

For a moment, everything was still. Malik met Altaїr’s eyes before looking at Al Mualim over the Master Assassin’s shoulder. The Mentor’s eyes seemed to bug out of his head, staring at the two, before he brought his hand part way up to his neck. Blood spilled out from where the throwing knife had embedded itself in his flesh, turning his once white robes and beard crimson. The Apple dropped to the ground with a dull _clang_ , and did not roll far. From outside, Malik could hear the crowd of civilians collapse all at once.

Altaїr blinked. He looked confused and dropped his sword. He looked around the room in bewilderment, seeing it but not seeing it at the same time. His gaze fell upon Al Mualim as he collapsed. Without wasting another moment, Altaїr rushed over to him, snatching the Apple from the ground as he did so.

Malik wrapped his arm around his abdomen and slumped slightly against the wall. Altaїr didn’t even notice as he knelt next to Al Mualim, whispering something to him that the Dai could not hear. Black spots danced in his vision and russet stains gathered on the floor beneath his feet. He slowly sank down, staring straight ahead, watching Altaїr say something to Al Mualim that the Dai could not hear.

Altaїr stood up and turned, his eyes falling on Malik. The blood drained from Altaїr’s face and he ran over.

“Malik I-” Altaїr said. While he didn’t frequently show too much outward emotion, Malik could see that his eyes were wide with panic. Altaїr’s gaze traveled to his bloody sword and then back to the Dai in dismay. “Let me see the wound.”

“You’re wasting time,” said Malik, his voice fading at the edges slightly. “Get help. Find the medics. If you can’t find them Jabal and several men are outside.”

Altaїr made like he was going to grab Malik’s arm to take him with him, but the Dai shook his head. “I will need to stay still or I’ll lose more blood.”

The front of the white tunic that Malik wore underneath his robes of office had transformed into a deep crimson and his hand was covered in warm, wet, sticky blood. His face was already pale and Malik felt very, very cold. In fact, great shivers racked his body.

Altaїr watched him for a moment or so before Malik shouted at him to leave again. Altaїr shook his head and bolted from the fortress. The Dai could hear him shouting for help, even as Malik himself slumped further against the wall, gasping for breath. His senses were slipping slightly and he found himself wondering if that was going to be it.

Malik’s own words echoed in his mind. “ _I believe that if my life is what is needed to be sacrificed for Masyaf to be free again it will be worth it._ ”

Outside of the fortress, Malik could hear Jabal and the other men exclaim in surprise upon seeing Altaїr alive. He supposed that they must not have been so far away from the fortress after all. Malik silently thanked a god he was not sure that he believed in as he heard Jabal calling out to their men to help the injured before he and Altaїr returned to the fortress.

Jabal immediately knelt down next to Malik. “Move your arm. I need to see the wound.”

Malik did as he was told. Jabal had a sharp intake of breath as he stared at the nauseatingly deep wound. From behind the Rafiq, Malik could see that Altaїr looked like he was going to be sick.

“Help me find supplies,” Jabal ordered Altaїr. “We need to get him stable before we can get him to the infirmary.”

Altaїr nodded and bolted, running around and in between shelves to look around for anything that may be able to help. Malik found himself mildly amused at the thought; a few months ago, Altaїr would have bristled at the order, without a doubt. He had never been particularly respectful to people in the ranks of the scholars and always seemed to resent them giving him orders, no matter how high a rank they were. Now it appeared that he was following Jabal’s order without a second thought.

Jabal helped Malik get his dark robes off office off, pressing the cloth to Malik’s torso. The Dai could feel his attention slipping again and kept having to force himself to focus. 

“How many of the men-” Malik gasped.

“I think we only lost six,” said Jabal grimly. “Several more were knocked unconscious, as far as I could see, but I could be wrong.”

“Six,” echoed Malik dazedly.

“Maybe more,” Jabal admitted, “but you mustn’t worry about that now. Al Mualim really did a number on you,” he added, eyeing Malik’s multitude of bruises that he had received in the fight. Jabal glanced over his shoulder at where Al Mualim’s body, frowning deeply.

“It wasn’t Al Mualim,” Malik admitted warily.

Jabal looked surprised. “What?”

Altaїr returned with his arms laden with bandages, the Apple still in one hand and a clay jar of salve in the other that Malik dimly recognized as being Rajab’s work. The bandages tumbled to the ground. He was a little more careful with the jar and placed it next to Jabal’s knee. Altaїr still clutched the Apple in one hand, though, his knuckles turning white. His eyes found his sword from where he had dropped it but made no effort to retrieve it.

Jabal didn’t ask any more questions. He cut away the rest of Malik’s blood soaked tunic and began to apply some of the salve, muttering about how he wished that he had a needle and some thread. Altaїr hesitated, looking like he was considering leaving to find some, but clearly making himself stay put in the end.

The people outside of the fortress began to pick themselves back up. They murmured to one another, at first sounding somewhat drunk or tired and then moving on to worried or panicked.

“What happened?”

“How did I get up here?”

“I… I can’t remember…”

“Where am I?”

“Where are the assassins?”

“Were we under attack again?”

“Why are my knuckles scraped? Did I… do something?”

“My son! Where is my little boy? He was just here with me!”

Malik tried to focus on their words to keep himself lucid, but found that he had a difficult time staying awake. Darkness was creeping in from the edges of his vision as Jabal’s skilled hands wrapped the bandages that Altaїr had retrieved around his torso over and over and over again. From Malik’s partially sitting up, partially leaning position, he could see Altaїr pacing slightly and fidgeting with his remaining throwing knives.

The Dai barely registered Jabal saying something to him, but he could not quite comprehend the words. “What?” Malik asked, his own voice sounding distant.

Jabal turned to say something to Altaїr. The last thing that Malik saw before he blacked out was his own blood staining the stone floor of the fortress.


	12. Recovery and Paperwork

Malik’s fever-drenched nightmares came in phases.

For a long time, he dreamed of running through Jerusalem with his friends and family running alongside him, although the city was on fire and Malik could only watch one by one as they were consumed by the flames.

The next thing he dreamed of was his recovery following the amputation of his arm; it didn’t feel quite as real, but then again, it didn’t feel real before, either. The illness-borne hallucinations, the constant nausea, the desire to die in his sleep… He had been constantly awash in his own grief and failure. Now, though, Malik knew that he wasn’t there; that he had not just returned from Solomon’s Temple, as he had memories of the last several months.

The third phase he realized why he had been dreaming of his recovery; Malik found himself in the very same cot as when he had returned from Solomon’s Temple.

The infirmary of Masyaf was comprised of three rooms; a storage room where all of the supplies and salves were kept. Malik knew that there was also a stove in there where pieces of cut away flesh were burned. There was a small surgery room, where assassins were operated on when necessary. Lastly was the main room of the infirmary where all of the patients were kept. Beds were all in rows, only occasionally broken up by tables or a chair or two, if someone had a visitor.

The beds closer to the farthest wall, the one with the only window in the room (although it was towering and let in plenty of light during the day) were slightly more comfortable than the others as they were built for assassins who were condemned to longer stays for worse injuries.

There was a chair next to Malik’s cot. He had only seen it filled once, when Rauf came to visit him after Solomon’s Temple to express his sympathy about Kadar and to tell him that Altaïr was still alive.

For his most recent injury, the chair remained empty, but it seemed that the room was a parade of other people coming to see him. It seemed that the remaining tendrils of fever were continuing to manipulate him.

Malik saw his father. He strode into the room with his head held high in his Master Assassin robes of pure white, scolding his eldest son for picking _another_ fight with Altaïr.

“If you continue with this _foolish_ behavior you’ll never become a true assassin,” said Faheem. “Do you wish to remain a novice forever?”

He also saw his mother. She was wearing her bright red hijab; it was her favorite and she wore it nearly everyday. Now, though, Malik kept it with his things back in Jerusalem with his father’s bracier and Kadar’s bloodstained gray hood. Its color had faded a lot, but Malik kept it nonetheless.

“I was thinking that we could have lamb stew tonight,” said Junah thoughtfully. “Maybe if we’re lucky your father will come back from his mission this afternoon and he will be able to join us.”

Kadar showed up frequently, mostly talking to his elder brother about whatever he did in training or something that Altaïr did.

“I heard some of the other novices saying that he charged straight inside, killed his target, and used a catapult to escape! Can you believe that?” His voice was always excited, no matter what he was talking about.

The visits from his family were punctuated with visits from long dead targets. Robert de Sablé was the most frequent, pinning his left arm to the wall with his sword or looking unimpressed when he plucked one of Malik’s throwing knives to dig it into Kadar’s throat. They, Malik had no doubt, were not real.

The real ones were the medics. They bustled about, changing his bandages (having him sit up so they could wind endless scraps of gauze around his torso), applying more salves, muttering under their breaths when they found that he had torn his stitching. Sometimes, when there weren’t any other visitors (real or not real), he would watch them tend to the other injured people, of which there were many.

Altaïr, however, remained noticeably absent. Malik reminded himself that he was still alive. He would not have died. In their fight, Malik did not fatally injure him, that much he was sure of. Malik was also certain that Altaïr was too stubborn to die. During his three missions in Jerusalem while he was redeeming himself, more than once Altaïr had returned to Malik’s bureau with injuries that would have brought a weaker man to his knees.

He thought that he saw him, once. Apologizing repeatedly. Malik didn’t think that that was real, though. At least not at the time.

Still, even as the fever faded and the visions along with it, Altaïr did not make an appearance. Malik frequently found himself wondering if there was something wrong. More than once he asked the medics about Altaïr’s whereabouts, but no one would give him any straight answers. In fact, more than once, they gave him conflicting information, one telling him that Altaïr was on trial for Al Mualim’s murder and another telling him that Altaïr was hiding out in the mountains again.

Malik, who had never really had much patience in the first place, often snapped at them; that didn’t really endear him to the medics and began to ignore him completely when he asked about Altaïr, Jabal, or any of the other men they had brought from the other cities.

A week after the fever had passed completely, Malik awoke to find the chair next to his bed filled once more, although not with Altaïr. Rather, it was Jabal, looking like he had not slept in days, although the Dai noted that he was wearing new, clean robes of office.

Malik sat up. “Where have you been? No one is telling me _anything_! Where’s Altaïr? What happened to the Apple?”

“Peace, Dai,” said Jabal, waving his hand to indicate Malik should lay back down. “Rest. You’re still very hurt.”

“I don’t care,” snapped Malik. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll start from the beginning,” Jabal said wearily. “We were lucky; we only lost five total. I was wrong.”

Malik sighed. While he certainly regretted their deaths, he truthfully expected a lot worse. He was glad that their men were so well trained their losses were minimal.

“Once everyone awoke, they had no memory of the incident,” Jabal went on. “Altaïr wanted to make sure that Al Mualim was truly dead, so he had a couple of the men set up a pyre to burn the body.”

“What!?” exclaimed Malik. “But that’s forbidden!”

“I know,” said Jabal. “He just said that he wanted to make sure. So he burned the body on the hill above the village.”

Malik stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking. In plain view?”

“Yes,” said Jabal seriously. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine. A fight broke out, but Altaïr managed to subdue them before anyone got seriously injured by disarming everyone one by one. Unfortunately, Abbas Sofian took the Apple. Nearly killed himself, too, but Altaïr managed to save him and retrieve the Apple.”

Malik knew Abbas; he was in their training group as children. He had never struck Malik as particularly bright, but perhaps that was because he didn’t show much interest in any of their lessons that did not directly involve a blade in hand. While he proved a challenge to fight as children, the few times that Malik sparred with him as an adult was not difficult in the slightest. The Dai was not surprised to hear that Altaïr managed to get the Apple back from that idiot with relative ease.

“Altaïr proclaimed that the people who started the rebellion must be forgiven,” said Jabal. “However, he and many of the rest of the men were ushered into the dungeons of Masyaf, Altaïr and myself included. Once again, the people had no memory of the events previous, so to their eyes there was just a group of assassins that conspired to murder Al Mualim.

“A council was hastily convened of the eldest Dai and other members of the order,” the Rafiq said. “They spoke to each one of us before declaring that we were too far spread to be a real conspiracy and let us go. They let me and a few more scholars in while they decided who would be the next Mentor.”

“And?” said Malik.

“Your name came up,” Jabal admitted.

“No,” Malik said flatly. “I am _not_ going to be Mentor. I don’t want to.”

“That’s what I thought you would say, so I argued in your defense against it,” said Jabal with a slight smile. “No, we chose someone else.”

“Who?”

Jabal paused. “I think you know. That’s why he hasn’t come to see you; the ceremony was yesterday, but the real focus was on the funerals of the people killed, which took place afterwards.”

“Of course,” said Malik. “When can I see him?”

“Give yourself another couple of days of bed rest and then I think you may be able to convince the medics to release you, if you promise not to over exert yourself and behave yourself in the meantime.” Jabal looked amused.

“Please, when have I over exerted myself?” Malik said sarcastically.

Jabal quirked a grin. He rose to his feet and patted the Dai gently on the shoulder. “I hope to see you up and about soon.”

“You and me both,” Malik called to the Rafiq as he made his way back to the entrance of the infirmary.

The Dai ended up taking Jabal’s advice and for the next week pretended to be a model patient. He stayed put in bed (no matter how stir crazy he was), he was very patient with the medics while they applied slaves and rewrapped his torso for the _billionth_ time, and he did not ask any more questions about Altaïr or his men.

Finally, he was released from the infirmary after he was made to swear up and down that he would return everyday to check and see how he was healing and that he would apply a salve every night. As eager as he was to escape the boring stone walls of the fortress and go outside for the first time in nearly a month, Malik knew that he had to find Altaïr first.

It took a long time to arrive, as Malik had to go slowly and stop frequently to compensate for his wound. The Dai half wondered if Altaïr had been avoiding him, although upon his arrival to the Mentor’s office, he found that that was not the case.

The entire area was in disarray. There were stacks of paper on the desk that were nearly as tall as Malik himself, and more stacked on the floor next to it. The stacks themselves were haphazard and looked like they could fall over at any moment. Malik also noticed that there were other papers, rolled up, folded, and crumpled, that had been shoved under the desk and into drawers.

Altaïr himself was wearing his black robes of office, new ones, thankfully. Still, it was a bit odd to see him dressed that way and Malik supposed it would have to take some getting used to. The Dai wondered if Altaïr felt the same way when he first saw him as the leader of Jerusalem.

Altaïr was asleep. Malik crossed over to the other side of the desk, peered at him for a moment, and kicked the back of the chair to wake him up, jumping back automatically to avoid the throwing knife that the Dai knew that Altaïr always slept with.

Altaïr looked surprised for a split second before mumbling something that sounded akin to an apology. Malik waved his words away and picked up a piece of paper from one of the stacks that did not look as dangerous.

“You didn’t come see me in the infirmary,” said Malik, his eyes flicking back and forth across the paper. It wasn’t an accusation, it was merely a statement of fact.

“I’m sorry,” said Altaïr sincerely. “I’ve just been…”

“Busy not doing paperwork?” Malik said. He picked up another paper from another pile and compared the two.

“It doesn’t make sense to me and it’s not what I _want_ to be doing,” Altaïr said, looking gloomily around the office.

“So you thought that just doing nothing would be the best option here?” Malik said, raising his eyebrows.

“I haven’t been doing nothing,” snapped Altaïr. “I’ve been… studying the Apple.”

Malik stared at him coldly. “You need to destroy it. Leave it somewhere the Templars can’t get it, if you can’t figure out how.”

“I was thinking about Cyprus-” Altaïr began.

“Oh no you don’t,” interrupted Malik. “What you need to do _now_ is get caught up on this paperwork.”

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t be Al Mualim. Why did I agree to this? I’m already messing things up.”

“Yes you can,” Malik said. “I cannot think of anyone more suited to this position than you. The mere fact that you are questioning your worthiness of being Mentor proves that you are the one for this position. You’ll be fine, you just need to get used to everything. I had to back in Jerusalem and you will here. I promise.”

Altaïr fell silent and looked around at the paperwork. Finally, there some _sense_ in his eyes when he looks up again. “Will you help me?”

Malik was taken aback, never once having heard those words passed Altaïr’s lips before. “I’m sorry?”

“Will you help me,” Altaïr repeated. “I can’t do this alone. I don’t think the role of Mentor _should_ be taken alone. I was thinking… maybe that’s why Al Mualim got so far in his conspiracy. Will you help me lead the Brotherhood?”

Malik entertained the odd feeling of being surprised and not surprised at the same time. He realized that he would miss Jerusalem, and he would have to make sure that things are good and organized before his permanent move back to Masyaf.

Back to Masyaf. He was going to get to go home.

“Well, I can’t ignore a direct order from the new Mentor, now can I?” Malik mused.

Altaïr frowned. “I didn’t order-”

“Of course I’ll help you, you idiot,” said Malik with a smirk. He looked around at the paperwork and added, “We had better get started straight away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! To be honest, this was mostly an experimental fic so that I could get used to the mechanics of AO3, after having been on fanfiction.net for so long.
> 
> Speaking of fanfiction.net, I'm going to transfer one of my more popular fics on there over here, now that this one's done. It's been a WIP since 2015, I think, and I'm finally wrapping it up now (even though there's only, like, thirty or so chapters. It's ridiculous).
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading!!!


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